Maurice took in the situation at once.  With the instinct of a veteran mail carrier, his first care was to roll his mail bags in a rubber sheet, while the registered sack, doubly protected, he never allowed for a moment to leave its station beneath his knees under the seat.  These simple precautions were barely completed before the storm was upon him.  A blinding flash set his horses on edge, their sensitive nerves quivering in every flank.  Maurice gathered the lines firmly, seized his “blacksnake,” and, with a low whistle, urged his animals, that bounded forward, snorting with fear as a crack of thunder followed, booming down the gorges with deafening echoes.  In another moment the whole forest seemed alive.  The giant pines whipped and swayed together, their supple tips bending and beaten with the fury of the tempest.  Above the wild voices of the hurricane came the frequent crash of falling timber; but, through it all, the boy drove on without thought of himself or of shelter, and through it all the splendid animals kept the trail, responding as only the horse can respond to the touch of a guiding rein or the sound of the mountaineer’s whistle.  But the end came for Maurice, when, upon rounding an abrupt steep, his four animals reared in terror, then seemed to crouch back upon their haunches.  The rude log bridge they should have dashed across was gone—­in its place gaped a huge fissure, its throat choked with wreckage of trestle and planking.

The unexpected halt nearly pitched Maurice from the wagon, but he steadied first his nerve, then his hands, then his eyes.  Why had the bridge gone down, was his first thought.  The storm was of far too brief duration to have done the mischief.  Then those keen young eyes of his saw beyond the tempest and the ruined bridge.  They saw about the useless supports and wooden props fresh chips from a recent axe.  In a second his brain grasped the fact that the bridge had been cut away on purpose.  His thoughts flew forward—­for what purpose was it destroyed?  Like a dream seemed to come the captain’s voice in his ears:  “Better take a gun with you, boy, and keep a sharp lookout for that registered stuff—­mind!” And he heard himself reply, “I’ll land the mail at the mines all right.”

“And I’ll do it, too!” he said, aloud.  Then, above the hoarse voices of the storm, he heard a low, long, penetrating whistle.  Quick as a flash the boy realized his position.  He snatched the registered mail bag from between his knees.  “Royal!  Royal!  Good dog!” he called, softly, and the poor, wet, storm-beaten creature came instantly, reaching pathetically toward his young master, his forefeet pawing the wagon wheels, his fine, keen nose sniffing at the mail sack outheld by Maurice.